


Unconstitutional

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Crowley, Catharsis, Demon Deals, Gen, Hellhounds, Juliet gets higher billing, Loopholes, Not Like That, Read the Fine Print, Revenge Fantasy, This Is Fine, like this, protest fic, we were all thinking it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Trump's deal time is up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I feel useless and unable to even effectively protest the current terrifying world events so I wrote this instead because catharsis fic. I’m actually kinda surprised nobody appears to have written this scenario before.

“What the-? Who the Hell are you? How did you get- SECURITY!” The man’s eyes open wide, panic evident as he stumbles back. The dapper little figure that’s just seemingly materialised next to his magnificent hotel bed checks his nails and waits, patiently, for his host’s display to run its course. “SECURITY! SECURITY? Oh my God…”

The man in black sighs, rocking on his heels. When the pyjama-clad figure currently busting a blood vessel seems to decide that security really isn’t coming, appears to assess their comparative heights and builds and braces to make a run at him, he holds up a casual hand. The suite’s occupier freezes, mid lunge, his eyes bugging out. “Can we just skip this part?” A smooth British voice says. “Nod once if you’re going to be a good boy.” The answering nod is stilted but the horror in his eyes looks sincere. The man in black smiles, and the taller figure slumps, almost falling forward onto the massive bed. “See? That’s much better,” the man in black purrs. He extends a hand, patting the gold-striped taffeta throw with a cautious grimace, before he hops neatly up onto the opposite site of the bed and crosses his legs. “Just checking that it’s, you know…” He raises an eyebrow. “...dry.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” The other man demands – American, loud, brash – and the man in black winces as if pinched. “You’re a terrorist aren’t you? Well, let me tell you, America does not deal with terrorists!”

“Trump, Trump…” One corner of the man in black’s mouth quirks up. “May I call you Donald? It would make me feel much less silly.”

“You will address me as Mr President!”

A nod, a pragmatic expression. “That’s fair. You are, after all, _currently_ the President. Although considering our past, it seems a tad formal…”

“Our past?” The President’s mouth falls open in outrage. “I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

The man in black lays a hand across his heart. His face arranges itself into an attitude of shock every bit as theatrical as The President’s. “Never seen me before? Won’t deal with me? But Mr President,” How is it that every time he utters that title in his smoky masculine voice it still manages to sound unnervingly reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe? “I’m almost hurt. You’ve already dealt with me – don’t tell me you don’t remember New Orleans?” He flutters his eyelashes.

The President’s mouth snaps shut. His jowls wobble as he shakes his head. “New Orleans? I’ve… never been to… New Orleans.”

“Oh, big boy, I rather think you have.”

“That’s a lie.” He sounds utterly convinced: the man in black cocks his head, almost like he’s considering it for a second.

“No… no, I don’t think so. I have a terribly good recollection for events. Kind of goes with the territory. New Orleans, eight years ago to this day. You told me I was pretty, but I should talk less if I want men to like me.”

“That wasn’t – I’ve never seen you before in my life and I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Pursing his lips, the President raises his chin, stubbornly.

The man in black sighs again. “We could go round in circles all night – believe me, I know, I’ve been through _bags_ of popcorn watching your speeches – but I have a manicure at eleven so we really do need to wrap this up sharpish. Crowley, King of Hell. I’d say I’m pleased to see you again, but,” he breaks off with a charming smile. “Donny, Donny. We both know what you’ve done. Now, let’s stop flirting and cut to the money-shot, shall we?” Crowley gives a sharp whistle. The temperate hotel air is suddenly filled with a menace of low growls and the pungent scent of wet dog and wetter blood.

The President’s eyes widen again. All the colour probably drains from his cheeks, but it’s difficult to tell. “What is this?” He whispers, uncharacteristically quiet. “I don’t know you.”

“New Orleans, darling.”

“That was… she was beautiful piece of ass. Is she working for you?”

Crowley pulls a considering frown. “In a manner of speaking. See, love, that _was_ me. Same demon, different vessel…”

“No… you have the wrong man.”

“Mmmm… don’t think so. I never forget a client. President of the United States. Handsy, poor technique – you’re quite the memorable smooch.”

“This isn’t happening.” The President shakes his head firmly.

Crowley narrows his eyes. “That approach may have seen you through your political _career_ , but you’re dealing with Hell now. And we have integrity.”

There’s a high whine, from right next to the bed, and the President looks around him wildly. Crowley raises a staying hand and The President closes his eyes as his candyfloss of hair is stirred by a hot blast of demonic doggy breath. “I can’t go to Hell. I’m a good Christian.”

“’Good’ is quite a subjective word in _most_ instances.” Crowley offers. “And… you? Not so much. I mean, my good poker buddy Francis certainly has things to say about you-”

“You’re in league with the Pope? I knew it.” The President interrupts. “God is on my side.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “About that…”

“Stop interrupting!”

“Excuse me? I wasn’t aware I was-”

“You’re doing it again! You’re a scavenger, a liar, twisting my words. Any deal I made, which I didn’t, was with a beautiful woman who threw herself at me, in New Orleans, where I’ve never been, eight years ago – well, the deal stated ten years! Who’s a liar now?”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dearie me. Did I say ten years? Is that _exactly_ what I said? What did the contract you signed state? Do tell: I’m all ears.”

“Contract? I didn’t sign a contract.”

Crowley smooths the taffeta quilt with one hand, then wrinkles his nose and surreptitiously wipes his hand on his suit trousers. “It was explained to you quite clearly when I first approached you with the offer. A kiss constitutes your physical signature. To be fair, you were quite distracted by attempting to grope my naughty bits at the time so perhaps you didn’t quite fully absorb the finer points of the negotiations, but your time _is_ up and you _will_ pay.”

“I would never! You’re a – disgusting, I will not pay, I’m not a-”

A click of Crowley’s fingers and The President’s mouth is opening and closing on air, silent and confused. “OK, _now_ I’m interrupting. My bad. But you see, I’m just telling you – there will be a payment.” Crowley narrows his eyes at the man cowering on the golden bed, between the two huge, unseen hounds, searching his face for any hint of recognition. “You did sign a form. Perhaps a complicated form,” The President makes a strangled noise, rubbing at the exposed skin of his forearms as burning red script bubbles up through his skin.  “And you have to understand that what I’m doing is going to be very good for Hell, it’s also going to be good for humanity. You need to learn to read the fine-print, mate. Section 2, paragraph 1 – it goes up your wrists a bit there, see; was a bit too long to fit the whole thing on your hands – says quite clearly: “Policy: It is the policy of The First Party to protect its interests from any Second Party who intends to exploit a demonic contract for malevolent purposes.” Which means, a soul can be claimed at any time if you, The Second Party, exhibits behaviour that poses a threat to the interests of The First Party – that’s yours truly - who happens to be rather partial to the myriad delights of humanity in all of its yummy diversity. Don’t let vanity and greed inform your decisions, Trump. Tsk. And I’d heard that at the very least, you were a good businessman. Put simply: you are going to pay. But, I do have a big heart…” Crowley’s smirk notches up. “I’ll allow you some last words.”

The President gasps, clutching his throat, as his power of speech is returned. His eyes narrow into a vindictive squint. “You can’t do this! I’m the President of the United States of America – you have to do as I say!”

“And I’m bloody Crowley!” The demon king’s voice rises, his eyes flaring red. “Juliet. Cher. Sic ‘em!”

A chorus of howls, not all of them canine. Crowley winces a bit, chuckling, then frowns as he flicks a speck of gore from where it’s landed on his Smartphone screen. He smiles indulgently as his pups snuffle in the tattered remains painted across the bed. “Oops. Don’t want to be late.” Checking the time on his phone, he raises it to snap one last selfie alongside the carnage, then gives another bright whistle. “There’s my good girls. Come with papa. And careful with that soul: it’s a slippery one.” His smile widens. “Looks like Hell just got one heck of a boost to our heating budget,” he says, as he walks straight towards the wall behind the bloodstained golden bed, and disappears.

 


End file.
